Three & Out

by Laura Chapman

  I nearly drop my phone but pull myself together before I blow my cover now and completely lose my cool in front of North.

  “Uh . . . Sure.” Do I sound casual enough? Like I could take or leave the Snap and be totally fine.

  North cradles my phone in his big hand (his arms are longer), he clicks reply, flips the phone around, and leans closer to me with his arm extended. “Ready?”

  I nod and on the count of three we wish the Sounds luck in today’s game. Before I hit send, I quietly save the video, because oh my god I just recorded a Snap with Todd Northwood, and I’ll keep it till the day I (or my phone) die.

  The cabin door opens, and North helps me pull my carry-on from the overhead compartment.

  “Hey, Harper.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Whatever you and your husband decide, it’s all going to work out.” He shoulders his duffel and flashes a grin. “I know we just met, but for what it’s worth, you and your husband seem like good people. Knock ‘em dead with your pitch on Tuesday.”

  “Thanks, Todd.”

  He hesitates a moment. “Try not to worry too much. It’ll all work out one way or another.”

  I really owe Todd Northwood for being a sounding board. First he takes two of my teams to the playoffs and now he gives me free advice. He’s probably my favorite for life now.

  I stay frozen in my seat for a few more minutes, allowing others to exit while I bask in the afterglow of my pep talk from North. If I didn’t have the video we just sent Brook, I’d never believe this happened. I always knew Todd Northwood was a brilliant decision maker under pressure. I always knew he had a knack for encouraging young talent. I just never imagined I’d be on the receiving end of any of it.

  My phone buzzes and I stare down at the screen.

  Brook: (Open-Mouthed Smiley) (!?) (Detective)

  Am I hallucinating or did I just watch a video of you and Todd Northwood?

  Please tell me you haven’t left me for him.

  Laughter bubbles out of me as a punch back a quick reply.

  Me: You’re not hallucinating. THE Todd Northwood sat next to me on the plane. But it was just a plane ride. Nothing to worry about. I’m still yours.

  Brook: Are you freaking out?

  Me: Almost, but I’ve made it this far. What are you doing on your phone?

  Brook: Halftime.

  Me: How’s the game going?

  Brook: Next question please.

  Ouch. That can’t be good. I’ll have to check the score and look for some highlights as soon as he stops messaging me. With any luck, I can get home to watch the final quarter. Even if it isn’t pretty, I need to show my support.

  Todd Northwood was right. It’s all going to work out.

  I BEG J.J. TO FIB TO the other coaches’ wives and tell them I caught a cold on my flight so I can spend Sunday alone polishing the book proposal. That’s followed up by my telling him he can’t borrow my car, which I explain away by saying Brook took it into the shop while I was out of town. I hope whoever keeps score won’t dock me too many karma points for lying, because I only did it to keep him from breaking yet another law by driving on a suspended license.

  With the football game on as background, I’m vaguely aware of what’s happening on TV as I focus on my computer screen. I could be wrong—and it’s totally possible, because as Amelia has pointed out at least a half dozen times, I don’t know what I’m doing with this—but I feel like this is pretty okay.

  After a few hours, I need a break and I somewhat guiltily check the Team Stitches website to see if any new orders have come in over the weekend. It would be a shame to screw up the good thing we have going there just because I’m obsessed with the idea of building a yarn empire. (My proposal may go beyond just a book, like a yarn line, but that’s something wholly different.) A few alerts pop up on our site, and sure enough I see new orders. There’s even a big custom request—full team winter sets for two adults and four children. The person even put a rush on it, saying he wants it the week after Thanksgiving. I’m glad I’m checking this now, because I’ll have to put in extra hours during the evenings all week if I want to make sure we get that one fulfilled.

  I’m checking through my yarn inventory to make sure I have the right shade of red—I do—when my phone buzzes. It’s a new text message from an unknown number.

  Hey—it’s Griggs. Need to talk to you about something.

  My stomach pitches. Is this for real or is someone pranking me? If it’s a joke, it’s not a funny one. If it’s for real . . . I’d rather it be a not-so-funny joke. Maybe I can ignore it either way, and the whole thing will go away.

  Got your number from my wife’s phone, but don’t tell her—it’s a secret.

  First, I hear you met Todd Northwood yesterday. Would love to hear about it.

  Second, I need your help on something I’d like you to make for my wife.

  Maybe we can talk about both over coffee tomorrow afternoon?

  He wants to talk about my North encounter and a present for his wife over coffee. Tomorrow afternoon. That’s Monday, typically the coaches’ busiest day. Shouldn’t he be working like every other person on his staff? And what is he doing going through his wife’s phone to get my number? I can understand if he’s sincere about wanting to order something for her birthday, but couldn’t he have gone through someone else like my husband?

  The longer I stare at the messages, the more I want them to go away. Better yet, I wish they’d never existed. Something about this—especially when added to his finding me at the hotel bar that night—really doesn’t feel right.

  No matter how much I wish, the messages don’t disappear. I can’t exactly ignore them either—unless I can convincingly pretend I’ve changed my number. (Maybe I should change my number.)

  I have to respond. Luckily, tomorrow, I can actually say I have an out.

  Me: Sorry, I have to work tomorrow afternoon and I have a pile of non-job stuff to do in the evening, too. If you’d like to order something for your wife, send me an email through the website and let me know what you have in mind.

  That seems professional enough. It isn’t even a lie, like the ones I said to get out of the watch party or to keep J.J. from driving. I hope it’s enough to keep him at bay. I can’t worry about it right now, though. I have too much else on my plate to wonder what Griggs is getting at with these bits of contact. I’ll think about it more after I’ve given this pitch, talked to Brook about babies, and figured out what to with J.J. Maybe I’ll luck out and Griggs will forget about me.

  EVEN THOUGH I’VE ONLY been back for a day, I sneak out of the office early to work on the final details of the book pitch. Kristen called today to confirm the meeting with her editorial team and that they were eager to hear our proposal. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I hadn’t completely convinced Amelia yet, but that’s a detail we can figure out later if they like the pitch.

  It’s going to be great. This might not be working out the way I’d hoped or imagined, but it can still be fine. Sheesh, I’ve already downgraded from great to fine in a matter of one second.

  All the more reason for me to call it an early day. With the fresh cup of coffee I picked up to revive me for tonight’s cram session, I push open the front door of our apartment ready to practice. The voices in the kitchen fall to a hush and J.J. pokes his head out.

  “Hey, you’re home early.”

  “I wanted to get some extra practice in tonight.” I scoop Blitz up under my arm as I close the door. “I want to be at my best.”

  “Well . . . I may have a little something here to help you with that.” He gestures for me to follow. “Come on.”

  I hope it isn’t some sort of drug. I’m not talking about cocaine or meth, but maybe something along the lines of Ritalin. You hear horror stories about athletes being pumped full of meds to keep them alert for class. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s how J.J. finished his degree at the university, and I’m not here to judge him, bu
t that’s not the path for me.

  There has to be a polite way of saying “thanks, no thanks” to drugs.

  Skeptically I follow him into the kitchen and I walk right into Amelia.

  “Oh my God.” I drop the cat on his feet and shove the coffee into J.J.’s hands so I can properly wrap my arms around her. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, after you left, I got to thinking about what we talked about and what you said.” She gives me one more squeeze and pulls back. “Then I spent all day yesterday worrying about you here by yourself doing all of the work. The more I thought about what this could mean for Team Stitches, what we could build this in to, I realized you were right. This is too big of a shot to let pass. I knew I couldn’t let you do it alone.”

  “So you flew across the country? To be here for a conference call?”

  “Like I said, I couldn’t let you do it alone.”

  I nearly remind her again it’s a conference call, and she could’ve phoned in, but I’m too thrilled to have her here. “I can’t believe you came.”

  “Hey, it’s like we’ve always said. We’re in this together.”

  “You jump, I jump.”

  “Can you forgive me for being such a Debbie Downer about this whole thing?”

  “No apologies necessary. You’re really excited about this? Like, seriously?”

  “Harper.” She wipes away a tear that had slipped down her cheek. “I may be late to this party, but I’m so excited.”

  “That’s all I wanted to hear.” I let out one more excited shriek then grab my coffee back from J.J., who’s still frozen in place staring at us. “Okay, first things first. J.J., order a pizza and grab some bottles of water. Amelia, help me clear the table. We have work to do.”

  Week Nine Recap: Another Week, Another Loss for Team Harper

  Well, that didn’t last long. It appears Team Harper’s win was a fluke. She once again lost, this time with a season low of only 85 points. We’re no mathematicians (okay, we actually employ a couple of statisticians, which is kind of the same thing), but even we can tell you that consistently underperforming won’t get you to the championship game.

  At this point, there’s no chance Team Harper will see a post season. Not unless every other member of her league loses out the rest of the season, which I’m told by one of the nerdy numbers people is statistically impossible.

  It’s not all Team Harper’s fault, though. She placed her faith in wide receiver Ben Bell, who wowed the world with his athletic prowess for the past two weeks. But after making a stunning catch in the first minute of his game, the wide receiver stepped wrong and tore his ACL. We won’t see him again this season.

  With an already weak running back core, losing her star wide receiver will make victory that much harder for Team Harper.

  Mega Ballerz Record: 1-8

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE NEXT MORNING, AMELIA and I huddle around my laptop, getting out the last-minute jitters before our conference call with Kristen and her team. It’s kind of bizarre. Amelia flew halfway across the country so we could conference call with people in an office fifteen minutes away from here. It’s kind of perfect. Amelia and I are a united front at last sitting in my kitchen. This is how Team Stitches started—the two of us at a kitchen table making plans to go big. Here we are now, ready to go even bigger than we ever could have imagined.

  “Are you ready?” Amelia asks.

  “Absolutely. What do we have to lose?” I hope my attempt at confidence sounds more convincing than it feels. I had to cut myself off from coffee earlier than usual today, because I was already jittery enough without it.

  I pull a notebook from my purse and hand Amelia a copy of the notes we carefully typed up during the Monday Night Football game. We came up with a few solid ideas, ones I’m proud of no matter what the publishers decide. I hope they like us.

  No. I can’t work myself up about a decision that will probably be arbitrary and subjective. I need to focus on what I can control. Like making sure my part of the presentation goes well so we can convey just how good we would be for them if they gave us a chance.

  “We’re good on the order, right? You’ll give our history and current figures, and I’ll pitch our potential projects.”

  “That’s right.” Amelia glances over her copy of the paperwork while I do the same. “It’s kind of fun shaking things up.”

  “How so?”

  “Usually you’re the person completely caught up in figures and processes, and I’m the one scheming up grand ideas that may or may not pan out.”

  I’m still grinning when her phone rings and an unknown number flashes on the screen. We exchange a glance, and for the first time, I can detect just how nervous my partner is.

  I grip her hand briefly. “Ready?”

  “Yes.” Her voice only betrays a hint of vibrato as she swipes right and turns on the speaker phone. “This is Amelia.”

  There’s a brief pause, then a hurried voice asks, “Is this Amelia?”

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Terri, and I’m calling on behalf of your phone’s service provider. Do you have a moment to discuss your data—”

  Amelia swears under her breath and hangs up. “Telemarketers!”

  Her face is so red, her expression so indignant, it’s impossible not to crack up. It takes a few moments longer for her humor to catch up with mine, but she gets there. We’re clutching our stomachs and covering our mouths in a desperate attempt to contain our laughter—or to at least prevent it from growing loud enough to wake up J.J., who is still sleeping off last night’s game.

  “I hope your phone’s account is squared away and current,” I say when I can catch my breath. “The last thing we need right now is for your service to get turned off because you dissed the wrong disgruntled call center employee.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s paid in full. We’re good.”

  At the risk of another bout of giggles, we exchange another glance. This time the anxiety is gone. Book deal or no, we’re in this together and on our terms.

  When the phone rings again, we’re comfortable and confident. We’re ourselves.

  “This is Amelia.”

  “And Harper.”

  This time, the person on the other end of the line is who we expect. “Hello, ladies. It’s Kristen Waller, and we’re glad to finally talk to you about this possible venture.”

  We exchange a few more pleasantries, making small talk about the weather and how my fantasy leagues are going. Even though we decided to do this meeting by phone—I guess a couple of the people on the call are in New York—Kristen asks if we’d be up for grabbing lunch before Amelia heads home tonight. It’s all carrying on so well I’ve almost forgotten we’re here to pitch a book when it’s my turn to control the conversation.

  Please don’t let me stutter or stumble over my own words.

  “As we’ve mentioned before, our main objective has always been to have our products, and the way they’re made, be about the things we love most: friends, family, and fun.”

  “And football,” Kristen adds.

  “That’s right. They’re about enjoying the moments of our everyday lives. Life gets busy. It passes by fast. We want something to remember and enjoy those best parts—the moments when we were at our happiest—and hold on to them. Those best moments are fun, exciting, and they’re usually unscripted.”

  Amelia holds up both of her thumbs. I’m bolstered by her encouragement.

  “We’d like to do a book about how you can learn to knit and crochet and have fun with it. You can do it in as much or little time as you can afford to spend on it. Like a lot of things, that learning process can seem daunting. I remember how nervous my future sister-in-law was during her first crocheting class last fall. The more anxious she was, the less she absorbed, and the more frustrated she became. It doesn’t have to be that way. You can break the rules and experiment. You can go wild. That’s what our book will be about. Living and lovi
ng life with all of its planned and unscripted moments through the art of knitting and crocheting. If this sounds at all interesting to you, we can send you our first chapter and the outline we put together.”

  “We’ll also include a list of some of the original projects and patterns we’d include,” Amelia adds.

  We stop talking and wait during the longest pause of our lives. At last, Kristen speaks. “You have an outline ready?”

  “Yes.” We give her some of the highlights and wait again.

  “Impressive.” We barely have time to flash each other excited grins before Kristen continues. “This sounds fantastic. I love the whole concept, and you two are adorable. I can’t imagine people not wanting to go on this adventure of crocheting and knitting with both of you. Send me those materials and if it all looks good, we’ll move forward. But at the moment, I’d say this is a go. It’s exactly what our readers want.”

  By the time we hang up the phone, Amelia and I are practically floating. On a squeal, she throws her arms around me and squeezes. “Thank you.”

  I wrap my arms around her and hug back just as fiercely. “For what? You’re the one who took a plane to be here for this.”

  “Yes, but thank you for making me see that we had to do this.” She pulls back, her eyes teary. “I was just too scared and overwhelmed before to realize we could do it.”

  “Hey, you’re the one who held my hand when I was scared about even starting the business. It’s the least I could do. It won’t be easy. It’s going to take a lot of work. It might get overwhelming and we might have moments when we think we’re crazy.”

  “But we’ll figure it out.”

  It’s too bad Amelia has to fly out tonight so she can be at work tomorrow, because there’s still so much I’d like to talk to her about. Like my flight with Todd Northwood and the advice both he and she gave me on another front.

  Of course, it’s probably best that I have the talk with Brook first.

  AMELIA IS ON THE SECOND leg of her return flight, and I’m waiting up for Brook alone when he gets home. He seems surprised to find me still awake and seated at the kitchen table. It’s after eleven, not exactly the usual time for me to be sorting through the latest batch of crocheted scarves and hats. Today’s practice must have been hell. The weight of it is clear on his face.